Solitude, Oil Paint, and Marianne Faithful

Had the house to myself today. I have not had many days to myself here – the house is usually full of children on weekdays, so, even if I have a day off of work, there is not much space for alone-ness or quiet unless I leave. Sometimes I just want to sleep in, or sit at the dining room table and write.

Solitude was a gift today. I painted! It was strange, because I haven’t been alone to paint in a long while. I could feel myself making silly faces while I concentrated on painting, integrating this last month of deep deep sadness, and listening to Marianne Faithful (which isn’t so happy either, but, with her commentary about the music, her addiction and her need for love – it felt right).

I laughed at my self-consciousness—I suspect I make faces while I work all the time, but it’s been so long since I got into the flow painting that I noticed it like it was new.

Right before I awoke this morning I had this dream:

A swanky cocktail party is entering full swing, when out of the corner of my eye, I see that our drunk hostess, who reminds me of a middle-aged Shelly Winters, has somehow shrunk herself and is standing at the edge of the kitchen sink. She is talking to no one in particular when she slips and falls. I run over to the sink, and fish her out from under a few inches of water and booze. I’m frantic. Someone keeps pestering me for my attention. Finally, I shout, “What!!?” Everyone is amazed – I just have to see! “They” (whoever they are) have made a clone of the perfect man, Dudley Do-Right, who is my husband. For a moment, I am dumbfounded – “they” even gave him a giant chin. Ugh. Why? I think of the perfect man, and he is not Dudley Do-Right. Why did I marry this man and why are there two of him now? The hostess! Her yellow maxi-dress is sticking to her limp body. I notice a shard of glass in her hand. I turn her over and see she has a gaping gash that has torn open the side of her waist. The glass! She is not bleeding, but the wound is half of her torso. I’m trying to push it closed, and before I know her fate, I wake up.

I was lying there for a bit. I couldn’t understand why she wasn’t bleeding. And I wondered if she was still alive, and then I wondered whether or not the fall was an accident.

And then I realized I slept for an entire night.

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I'm a rock-n-roller poet who left the Big Apple for the Big Sky Desert where I've been letting it be and grooving with universal love, singing to the gods, dancing with the muses and bicycling with dreamtime messengers. I like altering my reality through imagination, movement, breath, and makin' stuff.